The Six Times Tony Asked Ziva to Marry Him
by sofia-carby
Summary: Tony asks Ziva to marry him. Or something like that.


**Summary:** Tony asks Ziva to marry him. Or something like that.

**A/N:** Weaved my fics 'Welcome to Rainbow' and 'Eira' into this just a tad. Nothing is mine besides some imagination. Please review.

**The Six Times Tony asked Ziva to Marry Him**

The first time Tony asks Ziva to marry him is on a Tuesday.

They are investigating an old warehouse filled with decay and rats crawling the insides of the walls on a day swollen with post-summer heat; when they get pushed and locked inside an empty storeroom. Ziva fights their faceless attacker and Tony gets hit in the jaw. He can feel a bruise blooming beneath his skin and Ziva swears like a fiend in a different language (or languages); trying to get the door open.

It won't budge and they wait for help but no help comes.

"Shit." Ziva kicks at the door. "I do not have time for this."

"Why? Important date with C-I-Ray?"

Ziva glares at him in the semi-dark slouching around them and crouches in front of the door.

"For your information … Ray and I broke up. Not that it's any of your business."

"_Rea_-lly," Tony says and leans against the wall. "Huh. Didn't see that one coming."

"Neither did he." She takes out her knife to tamper with the lock. Tony can see the white flesh of her back; smooth with bumps like a broken intersection in the middle. Two craters right above her ass; like someone has pressed their thumbs there when the flesh was warm and soft and formable like play dough.

"Ouch." He laughs. "What'd he do? Oh, let me guess. He told you that you snore too loudly? Because let me break it to you, Ziva, you kinda do."

Ziva ignores him and works her fingers over the surface of the door; searching for cracks in the lock. Wipes her knife against her knee. Cocks her head to the left; her hair a black downfall.

"Well," he says like she's answered. "What else could it be?" He snakes his gaze down to the valley between her boobs, barely visible. "Did he say your tits are too small? Because they aren't."

He can see the straightening of her back and feel the sigh evaporating from her in this contained space. Which is running out of air. She spins around.

"We broke up because he – apparently – cannot 'commit'." She scowls. "Can you believe it?"

"Uh, well, yeah."

She narrows her eyes.

"I mean he's a guy. We don't marry easily. You have to be something extra."

"So what you are saying is – I am nothing … _extra_?"

She tugs at the zipper of her shirt, presses closer; invading his space. Raises her eyebrows. He looks down at her and smiles.

"Well I – I didn't mean it like that."

"Then how _did_ you mean it, Tony?"

"I mean it's he who has to be something extra to commit to you, Ziva." He laughs. "Because let's face it, you're quite the handful."

She gazes up at him, her eyes huge in the quasi-light. It makes him uncomfortable, and he doesn't knows if it's the lack of air in here or the fact that she's just a whisper from him that causes his heart to hitch down his stomach.

"I see," she says slowly. "So you think I made the … right decision then? Yes?"

He looks down at her mouth. Can't help it, really. Clears his throat.

"Yeah."

"Huh," she says and bites her lip. Her smile digs into her dimples for the splinter of a second, before she abruptly turns around.

He watches her give the lock her full attention again, their conversations evaporating around them like fragments of dust._ Huh._

It's quiet then, except for her attempts to open the door, and he starts to sweat. The air is running thin.

He can feel slight panic beginning to nestle under his skin, coursing through his blood. It's harder and harder to breathe in here; all of the oxygen used up. It feels like they are abroad somewhere, the air damp and heavy and touchable.

He leans over Ziva where she's working away at the lock with her knife agonizingly _slowly,_ gasping slightly. Maybe overdoing it just a little bit.

"Please Ziva, if you can get us out of here before the air runs out_ I_ will marry you."

"You are that … desperate?"

"Well, yeah."

At precisely that moment, the door clicks open and fresh air whooshes in along with the heavy glow of afternoon sunlight. It is sweet, sweet, sweet and he clutches the doorframe.

Ziva turns around and the ghost of a smile graces the edges of her mouth.

"I'm going to hold you to that."

The second time Tony asks Ziva to marry him is undercover.

Their job is to create a distraction, so they do. At the restaurant where the chef supposedly poisons the soup Tony gets down on one knee.

"Marry me, sweetcheeks?"

He can see the laugh she stifles; the way her cheek itches and how she strokes her finger over it just briefly. Poking her finger into a dimple. You would think she's brushing away a tear gone astray (ah the happiness of the young and to-be-married!), but Tony knows better. No one else would realize it, but he does.

"Of course, my little hairy butt."

People_ oh_ and _ah _and the staff applauds around them, bringing in a cake with fire set to marzipan the color of spring. Ziva presses her mouth to his and finally allows herself to smile. He snatches the laughter from her. The noise covers up the fact that Gibbs breaks into the staff's changing rooms and snatches the vial out of the chef's locker at that precise moment. Completely legally, of course. Before they leave they feed each other cake for show. Turns out she despises marzipan which makes it all so much funnier.

Later that night, when they all say their goodbyes in the parking lot outside work; Gibbs turns to Tony.

"Great proposal, DiNozzo."

"Thank you, boss."

Tony grins at Ziva who only rolls her eyes.

Together, they watch Gibbs drive off; golden-edged autumn leaves catching in a whirlpool around them in the color-drained dawn air.

Tony winks at her.

"So, Ziva … where would you like to spend the wedding night?" He looks at his watch. "Or morning."

She narrows her eyes at him, poking her car keys between the gaps of his ribs.

"Careful, or I _will _poison you."

He laughs and takes a step forward, ignoring the car keys.

"G'night, wifey."

"I think I prefer probie."

He touches her cheek lightly, right where her smile starts. She has a smudge of marzipan there and he brushes it off.

"You'll have to ask McGee for permission first. That's his name."

She just shrugs before stepping away and getting into her car.

"We never would have worked out, anyway. I do not commit easily."

"Neither do I. You have to be something –"

"Extra. Yes?" she finishes and slams her door shut.

He watches her slide out of the lot; fast and recklessly and leaving the smell of something burning behind.

He grins.

"Yeah."

The third time Tony asks Ziva to marry him is at Christmas.

It's after dinner at his place. With McGee and Abby and Gibbs and Palmer and Ducky there. Bellies stitched with turkey and red wine and 'Happy Holidays!'. The sky plumb with the promise of snow later.

They agreed to no presents, but Tony couldn't help it. Doesn't really know _why_. It wasn't planned. It just happened.

Ziva comes into the kitchen to say goodbye; her face slightly blood-and-wine flushed. Lit eyes. It makes his stomach churn.

"Tony, Gibbs and I are leaving now. He's giving me a ride."

This fact alone is fascinating; Tony knows things between Ziva and Gibbs haven't been great lately. He can feel the hopeful note that has crept into her voice. Still, now isn't the time to _care_.

"I – uh – I got you something."

She looks genuinely surprised, the skin on her forehead folding into itself.

"Really?"

"Yeah." He doesn't even know why he feels nervous. Must be the wine.

He hands her the box, tiny and the color of sunlit European ocean. A snow-colored bow on top, sealing it.

She doesn't look at him as she opens it. Doesn't make a sound but he can see it; the inhalation. Expanding her chest. _Oh._

It's the Star of David, caught on a gold chain. She holds it up so it catches the semi-light in the kitchen.

He clears his throat.

"Well, I know you lost yours in Somalia and I haven't really … seen you gotten another one. So I just thought. That it was fitting."

Words snaring around his ankles; coming out in a thorny rush.

She looks up and smiles a little.

"I do not really know what to say."

He laughs.

"Sorry if I got your hopes up. I thought about getting you a ring. Having me for a husband would indeed be the best of gifts."

She scowls and punches him lightly in the arm and he over-exaggerates an _'ow'_ like they always do. Then she hugs him close. Like they never do. Fits her hips into the bend of his. Her mouth at his neck. Warm. Her dress is the same color as the snow-swollen sky outside.

"Thank you. So much."

He doesn't know what to say, so he just hugs her closer for a moment; their world caught in a snowball made of glass; shaken up. A change in the weather carrying the slight beginning of a storm.

The fourth time Tony asks Ziva to marry him is after one question (want to grab a drink or something?) and two bottles of wine and three dances.

They sway on the dance floor; the beat of the music flooding his veins. Blood rushing a million miles an hour and he is sure she can feel it; her fingers pressed into the fragile flesh behind his ears. Tony never dances sober. Now; standing close to Ziva with his hands entwining her ribs, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. He is not entirely sure why he asked her to do this; probably because he was bored and she had sadness clinging to her features; cutting into her face like barbed wire. He places his mouth against her ear, her scent strong and demanding.

"Sweetcheeks, you are so beautiful I wouldn't even mind marrying you.'

Ziva only giggles, her voice sounding oddly hysterical in the mist of alcohol and sweat and music. Tony doesn't think he has ever heard her giggle and the sound is rare; a flash of foreign ground; odd and exciting and with completely different street signs.

"But_ I_ would."

Then she pulls him close and kisses him. Her mouth is hot against his; melting and reshaping and tasting similar to years ago when they went undercover. It's a bit clumsy but he gets the picture and takes her home.

That night they create Eira.

He doesn't even know about her until Christmas, when Ziva confesses. All of the memories come flooding back; white wine, dancing with his damp hands at the warm slope of her hips, asking her to marry him in slurred syllables, crashing together at his apartment on dirty sheets. Briefly becoming one.

Her belly swells to the size of a globe; carrying just as much inside it. When he places his palm flat over the dip of her bellybutton her feels like he's in another universe entirely; water and life dancing beneath.

He drunkenly asks Ziva to give him her hand and she soberly gives him the world, instead.

The fifth time Tony asks Ziva to marry him is at two in the morning with a demanding infant finally asleep.

Eira smells of warm milk and soft, damp baby flesh. She is womb-fresh; so delicate and little. Just pushed into this world; showing her tonsils to the world. Covered in grease; water-skinned and the most beautiful thing in the entire world. She's even more beautiful than Ziva, but he never tells her that.

Ziva is exhausted; her breasts milk-heavy and her body slumped across the bed. Hair a coal-colored mess. Of all the things in the world that should make her tired, to finally stop moving, this is it. The evidence of the two of them; two pieces made up of bone and flesh and skin.

He traces the dip of Ziva's naked waist; curving downward. She likes it when he does this; he has noticed. He likes it, too; finding her buttons. Figuring her out, all the turns and twists. He is getting better at it. Navigating her without a map.

Perhaps that's why he chooses this moment to ask her. Their world so complete and exhausted; so comfortable and messy and perfect.

"Hey, Ziva," he whispers, his voice barely there, barely strong enough to hold the words he is about to say.

"Yeah?" she sighs into her pillow, her mouth open and her eyes surrounded my midnight blue; sleeplessness leaking colors there.

"Marry me," he mumbles into the soft crook of her neck; just where baby-hair takes root and turns into long, fine hair to bury his palms in.

"I won't fit into a dress." She laughs sleepily, tracing the lines and plates of his face she has claimed hers; her eyes almost closed; just a butterfly flutter.

Tony doesn't answer and listens to her breaths becoming deeper and more even, in sync with Eira's heavy baby-gasps on his chest.

He takes his baby's tiny palm; damp and soft like a fat, reaching starfish.

"Marry me, Ziva," he says, quietly into the map of her palm. A question, a promise for her to hold on to. Sinking into the lines of the flesh, sealed in her cupped fist. Later, right before he falls asleep, he thinks he can hear Ziva say a sleepy 'yes' with her mouth somewhere between his wing-peaks, but that could be his imagination.

The last time Tony asks Ziva to marry him is on a Tuesday. Again.

It's in the elevator. Without a ring burning the insides of his pocket. With a plan crumbling at the edges. Written and re-written in his mind over and over.

The entire morning he has felt it; the desire to ask her to be his only growing greater. He wants to tell her how it feels like she fills up the hollows inside his bones, becoming part of him in every corner of his mind. How her coffee tastes horrid and how he wants to spend the rest of his life waking up to it. How he is so glad that Eira is part her. How she has changed and he has changed and somehow they still fit together. Even after all these years.

He can't, though. The words never sit quite right and he fears she will only roll her eyes. He knows she loves him, in her own way. Her own determined, annoying way.

He wants to tell her that she crept under his skin and made a living there, without even asking permission.

This he _will_ tell her. He hopes to, at least.

He pushes the button and the elevator comes to a stop. Ziva turns toward him, frowning.

"What are you doing?"

His mouth is parched and empty; his confidence a mirage in a desert. The thick smell from her latte fills up the tiny space and he is suffocating.

"I have something to ask you."

Now her frown smoothes out at the edges. He features reshaping.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"You are going to propose to me. Yes?"

"What? No! I would never –"

He breaks off when he sees the look on her face. Calm and knowing and a little bit annoyed. Takes a sip from her paper cup.

He laughs nervously.

"Eira made me ask you."

"Did she."

"Yeah. She threatened to get another round of colic if I didn't."

He can see Ziva's face softening; almost folding into a smile. Not entirely. But almost.

"She is awfully verbal for being so young."

"Well. _You_ are her mother."

She shifts toward him a little and he can see a flash of surprise in her features. Brief but _there. _He loves taking her by surprise. It's a rare gift, like Eira.

He clears his throat; encouraged by this.

"Seriously, Ziva. You might think I can't commit and maybe I can't. But I want this. A lot. At first, I didn't think I wanted Eira. But then, I realized I never wanted anything more."

A beat. His words at sea, waiting for the tide to bring them in.

"Well," she says and smiles a little, almost despite herself. "You will be the one to break the news to Gibbs. Think you will be … fit for a wedding after that?"

"Can't be anymore difficult than talking to you when you where pregnant."

He manages to get out of her punching range and laughs.

"There are no rules against this, Ziva."

"Number twelve?"

"It just says never_ date_ a co-worker. Not _marry_ one."

She smiles.

"Well, then."

He grins. "Is that a yes?"

"You have to ask me first."

"I already did. Five times."

"Tony," she threatens.

"Okay, okay," he says hastily. Smiles.

He doesn't get down on one knee. Doesn't offer her a ring. Just asks. Turned toward her in the elevator, like so many times before.

"Ziva David. My insane, crazy ninja." She narrows her eyes. "Marry me?"

She looks at him for a moment, slowly up and down. Evaluating. He almost shivers. Then she smiles.

"Fine."

"Is that another word for 'yes?'"

She rolls her eyes, still smiling. Stands on her tiptoes and places the lightest of kisses on his lips. It's just a breath; a one-syllable word. Easy to say, but filled to the brim with meaning. Breaks apart with her eyelashes brushing his cheek. She has freckles like stars scattered across her face; spread in nearly invisible arcs.

"Yes."

It's just a whisper. But this time, it isn't his imagination. They aren't faking it. There's no wine filling his blood stream. It's real and raw and honest. It's them.

She reaches out and pushes the button and the elevator starts to move. Takes a sip of her latte. _Yes._

Then the doors ping open; people rushing by, the smell of coffee hanging to the air, the world not frozen, even if he feels like it is. _Yes._

He turns toward Ziva, grasps at the soft skin of her elbow that has become his favorite part of her and she braids her fingers into his; warm from her cup. He smiles at her; feeling like wildfire is spreading inside him_; _taking over and burning and leaving things entirely different._ Yes._

"I'm going to hold you to that."


End file.
